Hate Watch: And Just Like That, It's 'And Just Like That'

"Does anyone still wear a hat?" Elaine Stritch asked in "Company" back in 1970.

It turns out Carrie Bradshaw does in an epic fashion faux-pas on the first episode of Season 3 of "And Just Like That" with a huge, floppy thing that appears to have landed on her head like some alien parasite clothed in gingham. Of course, the ever fashion-conscious Carrie tries to walk, eat an ice cream cone and converse with it on her head as if it were a simple pillbox, but watching her do so was one of the numerous cringe-worthy moments in the season's premiere.

Need others? How about the embarrassing phone sex between Carrie and Aiden? Aiden (John Corbett), who looks like he should be starring as the corpse in "Dead Outlaw," returned to Carrie's life at the end of last season and all but forced her to give up her tidy West Side digs because of his issues with it. With Big's inherited wealth, she buys a Gramercy Park brownstone in which she and Aiden are going to find conjugal bliss only to learn that one of his son's substance abuse issues has forced him to be a Strong Dad. Guiltily, he returns to North Carolina with a near impossible caveat for Carrie: no contact for five years, after which he will join her in her "Gilded Age" digs.

That Carrie agrees is another improbable turn-of-events in this increasingly incredulous series. The "Sex and the City" Carrie wouldn't have agreed to five minutes of no-contact, never mind five years. And, of course, Aiden breaks his own rule after a few beers while in his truck (how butch!) and calls Carrie for phone sex. Carrie attempts to comply, but the watchful gaze of her newest companion, her cat Shoe (the best acting on the show), keeps her from fully participating; but it hardly matters because Aiden apparently shoots his load after tooting his horn (a sad metaphor). When Carrie attempts to repeat the scenario, Aiden is being a Good Dad and cannot play, and she feels shame.

On Episode Two a guilty Aiden turns up in Gramercy Park where in Carrie's cramped kitchen (an odd design choice given the spaciousness of the house), where he allows for more communication, but with a typical Aiden by-law: "You may encounter some Muzak," he adds, as if to say he may not be there if she needs him. Whatever. Carrie's agreement proves she is long-playing record that just wants to be played again and again. Later in the episode she gets bent out of shape after sending Aiden a pic of a modernistic table she wants to buy and asks his opinion. He responds with thumbs-down emoji, which sends her into a rant she shares with Miranda saying that is not a relationship. She then defines a relationship as one where two people stand in front of each other and ask each other what they think. Okay, but how long has she known this man? Doesn't she know this table really doesn't fit into his aesthetic? And doesn't the simple emoji convey that without words?

And then there are the rats, who dramatically appear in Carrie's bucolic backyard as she's writing what appears to be her first attempt at historical fiction(!?!) They swarm around her as if Nosferatu were about to make an appearance and lead her to hire an exterminator who destroys her garden claiming the rats have found a home in the underbrush. (This isn't uncommon in urban settings.) She instructs another exterminator to use the strongest poison possible, which should only have sent shivers down the spines of Shoe's legion of fans. (The poor cat is constantly trying to go outside and no doubt would eat the poison.) Carrie also hires a landscaper (Logan Marshall-Green) to redo the garden – a hunky, bearded 30-something, who arrives wearing a T-shirt that reads "Dead Wait," and their conversation about gardens and the meaning of the T-shirt sends Carrie into full MILF mode. But is the T-shirt intended to be a comment on Carrie's five-year wait?

But back to what is cringe-worthy. How about Miranda's hook-up with a tourist, Mary (played by Rosie O'Donnell), whom she meets at a lesbian meet-up event at closing time? Mary's slow, monotone delivery was enough to give pause, but the impulsive (and horny) Miranda agrees to join her in her hotel room only to find out the next morning that Mary is nun from Winnipeg, and this is her first sexual encounter. Over the next few days, Mary deluges Miranda with such touristy invites as dinner on Tavern-on-the-Green and tickets to see "Wicked," which Miranda and Carrie dismiss with typical New Yorker scorn. That, along with Carrie's "Virgin Mary" jokes, did little to endear either of them to anyone living outside of a Manhattan zip code. As Rose points out in "Gypsy," "New York is the center of New York," and such comments are just self-serving and not funny. Miranda puts an end to this one-sided romance, but the scenario was like the opening of some stalker film from the 1990s that would have Rosie returning to make Miranda's life hell. (And maybe she will – wouldn't it be great to see Rosie full-throttle in a habit and an axe?)

On Episode Two Miranda at least had the pleasure of turning the experience into an anecdote she could share with Joy (Dolly Wells), the queer BBC producer who turns up in her office with whom Miranda has a crush on. But this wasn't before she made a pass at a waitress at a Mexican restaurant whom she connected over a reality show "Bi Bingo!" that they both agree is "Hate Watch." Despite the waitress saying she has a crush on one of the show's female contestants, she explains she's straight, married, a parent of two, and turns down the date, before telling Miranda to enjoy the guacamole! After the entire Che debacle from last season, the writers need to give Miranda a more relatable girlfriend... or send her up to the nunnery in Winnipeg.

That the writers chose to bring up the term "Hate Watch" is curious. Are they oblivious to how many viewers (myself included) categorize the show this way? Just go to the comment section of the New York Times weekly recaps to read the vitriolic response. As a friend put it recently, "It was so boring I started to fall asleep, so I can't wait to watch it again to see what I missed." But what makes the show so addictive? Could it be the glib writing and performances, and array of high-end fashion? A deeper dive suggests it is a myopic vision of the social world of Manhattan's uber-wealthy. With a little irony, the show could be a tart commentary on how the women from "Sex and the City" got older, but no wiser; instead, it is flat caricature of landmark series that only is getting worse with each season. The plot memes of its new characters, Lisa and Seema (Nicole Ari Parker and Sarita Choudhury), are simply dull. Who cares about Lisa's struggle with her dumb Millennial assistants forcing her to add Michelle Obama to her documentary about little-known black women who made a difference or helping her husband look 'cool' in his political campaign? Seema does fare a bit better – her refreshing put-downs do establish her as a woman nearing 60 who will no longer take shit from anyone, and pointedly sit in contrast to Carrie's servile response to Aiden's demands.

On "Sex and the City," Carrie was always annoying in her self-centeredness, but at least she struggled; Miranda had a fierce determination and a sarcastic wit that saw her through anything; and naïve Charlotte had an endearing vulnerability as she maneuvered her single life. Now married, she likes some upscale Lucille Ball in one comic misadventure after another. Her most recent cringe-worthy moment came when she and Lisa invaded the office of Greg (Tim Bagley), the principal of her elite private school their children attend and he panics, grabbing his vest thinking there is a school shooting. It is nice to see actor Bagley (so wonderful as the devout Christian gay man on "Somebody, Somewhere") getting work, but seriously – a gag about school shootings?

Each episode only shows what a smart decision Kim Cattrall made in deciding not to return as Samantha. No doubt the writers would have given her an OnlyFans storyline. Cattrall knew when it was time to leave. Her former castmates should have taken lesson as they, believe it or not, reach the age where they are eligible for AARP memberships. As Carrie dresses like a thirty-something fashionista, it is apparent that age is the elephant in the room the series does not want to address. Even Anthony's rant about Carrie waiting five years for Aiden didn't mention age as a contributing factor. That the show exists in a bubble of its own reality is why it has become many viewers' favorite hate watch.

A last word: that Carrie typed the date 1841 in whatever she was writing no doubt was a reference to a comment she made when she met up with Lisette (Katerina Tannenbaum) during a glib conversation at the start of Season Three, Episode Two. (Lisette took over her West Side apartment.) During their conversation, Carrie wondered what it was like be a single woman when her house was built, which only brings to mind HBO's "The Gilded Age," the extravagant and canny depiction of life in Manhattan in the late 19th century. Can we expect a time-traveling Carrie sometime soon? Maybe she can move the timeframe up 50 years and she can appear as the long-lost cousin to Agnes van Rhijn (Christine Baranski) and Ada Van Rhijn (Cynthia Nixon, much better), and offer Ada fashion tips. The right hat perhaps?